


one-fifth

by nayt0reprince



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Might become a series, No P5R spoilers, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Unrequited Crush, post Persona 5 Vanilla spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: in which the world is saved, and mishima wants to write a book about it. if only he could write half a darn.
Relationships: Kurusu Akira & Mishima Yuuki
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	one-fifth

**Author's Note:**

> kinda desperate for normalcy in my life so resort to flexing my writing muscle I be. it’s been awhile and a half since I last attempted to do this so I’m incredibly rusty, so I thank you for your patience. that said, please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Quietude slipped into Mishima’s room alongside nightfall. His fingers hovered above his laptop’s keyboard, the dulled backlight illuminating his current blanket-cocoon as he tried to figure out what word should come next. Spring’s breeze ruffled the tree branches outside in encouragement - _You can do this, you can -_ but he struck the keys with building irritation, unhappy with his progress. Drab prose conjured by a drab high school student. Every critic throughout Japan would take one glance at his slipshod manuscript and his dreams before tossing them both into the recycle bin.

Frustrated, he snapped the laptop shut, casting the whole bedroom into darkness. He set it onto the bedside table before staring up at the ceiling. _I can’t,_ he thought, corner of his upper lip twitching, _I really, really can’t._

The events that transpired last year occurred in such a bombastic, out-of-this-world manner that words could only hope to capture. Furthermore, while he purported himself to be the Phantom Thieves’ manager, he hardly saw or understood what they even did. Scrap paper with sloppy handwriting recounted many interviews with the former members, but even their retellings of their fantastical escapades lacked _something._ Or - he gritted his teeth - or he just lacked the ability to make it sound as captivating as he found them to be.

He rolled onto his side. His back. His other side. Dreadful incompetence haunted his every thought, riling doomsday scenarios to their absolute peak. Nobody would want to read it. Everyone would slander it on every forum board across the Internet. Someone would rightfully say, _Man, if only literally anybody else could write about the Phantom Thieves, because this author is so damn boring._

Plain and unmemorable. At least being terrible garnered some attention, albeit for all the wrong reasons. _Boring_ was the worst insult anyone could strike with -

(“Nothing stands out about you. Isn’t that right, my little lapdog?”) 

\- even more so than one of Kamoshida’s powerful blows.

Maybe he should hand over the project to somebody else. He contemplated this line of thought many a time, often when the owls cooed and the crickets sang their serenades to the moon. Browsing social media as a break only served to batter his simpering spirit even more; his fellow third-years boasted their plans to get into well-to-do universities, or how their lives were so put together prior to graduation. He hadn’t bothered (in a fit of fleeting and unfounded confidence) to plan out his life so dutifully, nor spared a thought to his future other than writing this one book which now donned the appearance of a toddler’s patch-job using their mother’s old grocery lists.

(Good job, the mother would say out of love while hoping to the heavens above that her child might one day develop some semblance of respectable intelligence to actually be proud about.)

He thought he long outgrew this: this self-sabotaging, endless mind-game of berating himself into a pulp. Did he learn nothing from last year? What about the spurt of understanding he gained from being around Akira?

_Akira._

The name tumbled from his brain and traversed through his veins to settle in his heart. His brow furrowed as a faint blush swept across his cheeks. _Akira._ The man, the myth, the legend - a person that walked the Earth once every hundred years to show just how capable a single human being could be in changing the world. He held confidence in spades and a myriad of talents to boot; a true showcase of flashy splendor. Mishima bit his bottom lip. The guy pulled off _glasses_ flawlessly! _Glasses._ Dorky glasses, no less - thick _and_ square-rimmed! That alone deserved heaping praise.

Mishima missed him immensely. 

All of one month had passed since Akira’s return home, and entering the classroom just didn’t feel the same. Sure, he had a new classroom, what with being a third-year and all, and someone else sat in the chair toward the back hugging the windowsill, but it wasn’t the same. He had no one to approach with new intel that trickled on the Phan-site, nor did anyone ping him in the middle of class with old-school cat memes. The hours dragged with a hollow spot where Akira should have been.

Mishima dug for his cellphone wormed somewhere beneath his pillows and checked his notifications. Nothing, aside from the daily headlines. He switched to his messenger app. Whenever he grew despondent with his work, talking to Akira really was his only way to rekindle his motivation. He pushed aside thinking of his manuscript and sent a quick,

 **Me:** You awake?

A beat passed, then two. Mishima’s stare refused to lift from the screen. At last, three telltale dots pulsed quickly.

 **Akira K.** : Nope.

 **Me:** Har har. 

**Me:** Just wanted to check in on you. 

_Just wanted to know I’m still relevant,_ the booming voice of Insecurity wanted to add, but Mishima elected to do his best to ignore it. Which, given the current trend of the night, was going to fail miserably.

 **Akira K.:** All is good.

That was it. No follow-up, no additional quippy comments. The chatbox remained stagnant with inactivity as Mishima tried to parse deeper meaning in Akira’s response. “All is good?” Did that translate into “Leave me alone?” or “Quit bugging me so much I don’t care about you?” A cold sweat broke out on his forehead while he clutched the phone like a thief and their prized jewels. 

**Me:** Cool. Good to hear.

The screen darkened. Mishima was alone again. The phone slipped from his fingers. He mushed his face into the pillow, and, with a sharp suck of his breath, proceeded to scream every insufferable thought into the down. God, just how pathetic could he be? How annoying, how -

The phone buzzed. His head lifted immediately as he pawed for the phone, eager.

 **Akira K.:** I’m lying btw.

Lying? Before Mishima could respond, Akira continued:

 **Akira K.:** Can I tell you something? Between us. It might be a little weird and you might not get it but like I need to get this off my chest. 

**Akira K.:** I’ll pay you back later in memes or crepes idk.

Mishima blinked, then swallowed down the guilty bile bubbling along the back of his throat. It wasn’t that Akira hated Mishima’s company, not really. No, something was _bothering_ him - and if Mishima paid better attention, the short, curt messages began around December. While Akira had the same grin as always, something didn’t quite reach his eyes. However, Mishima’s masochistic ego insisted Akira’s problems revolve around _Mishima’s_ behavior - and without ever asking, too.

God. He really could be stupid sometimes. He needed to be a better friend. After a moment, he willed his thumbs to hammer out, 

**Me:** Yeah, of course.

 **Me:** What’s up?

The little dots floated in digital cyberspace for quite some time. Mishima allowed the phone to enter sleep-mode to wait for Akira to hash out his words. What could it be? Maybe the disbanding of the Phantom Thieves left him lost? Or returning home didn’t go as smoothly as he hoped? All his friends were here and he was stuck out in the countryside. That’d make anyone a little upset.

Instead, the large paragraph - the largest Mishima’s ever seen Akira type, and it spanned across several line breaks - dominated the screen:

 **Akira K.:** Have you ever regretted making a serious decision?

_Like, something that cost someone everything?_

_A decision that, in hindsight, you should have never let yourself make. You were tired, sure, and maybe you should’ve slept a little more that night like someone told you to, but you kept rolling around in bed from nerves about performing the grand finale. And that morning, you ate breakfast. That morning, you browsed the crossword puzzle and sipped some coffee without giving it a second thought. You attended school. You planned during class to pull off the greatest heist imaginable, something that could very well change the world._

_And at first, it all goes well, right? Everything is going as you thought it might, a few minor hitches here and there, but nothing you can’t handle. At this point, it’s routine. It’s commonplace. And you get to a certain point, victory fanfare playing from 8-bit to orchestral the further along you go, and then everything goes to hell the moment you enter that one damn hallway._

_And I have the hallway memorized. I can see it when I close my eyes. The metal mesh, the pipes, the big red turn wheels, the high ceiling, the dampness in the corners, the safety-lock door, the shadows. I see it every night._

_Someone you thought was your friend appears before you. They betrayed you before, and they have the nerve to be angry at you about something that’ll take too long to explain. They’ve basically lost it or everything. But most importantly, you know that they’re alone, like, super alone, physically and mentally and spiritually, and the string that holds them together is so taut that even a breeze can make it snap. With me so far?_

_You have a fight. It lasts ages. You can feel the bitterness and exhaustion and desperation and - most importantly - longing in every attack. They wanted to belong with you. They envied you. And you knew why, and you understood why, and in a moment of clarity more than anything you wanted to give them the opportunity to become who they should’ve become. Yeah, they did the shittiest things, and yeah, maybe those things can’t ever be forgiven no matter how many times they say “sorry,” but goddammit, you know in that moment they never had a single chance from the get-go. Everything was stacked against them. You want to help them._

_And when all is said and done, you make that offer, right? You’re going to be the better person and give them a third or fourth chance in their life. They’ve hit absolute rock bottom, they can’t hurt you anymore. You have a common goal, too - maybe you can achieve it together, who knows?_

_But another wrench happens. You two get separated somehow in another scuffle from a third-party. A big, iron safety-lock door stands between you and them. And something feels wrong, screams wrong in the bottom of your heart. Like maybe you should’ve stayed on the other side when the door shuddered down. They’re talking a little funny, saying shit that no high schooler should say, right? Like the whole world is fucking ending. And you pound on the door, telling them to get out of there or - or maybe you said nothing at all and imagined yourself saying the words you WANTED to say._

_They tell you, more or less, that it’s okay. A blessing to go on ahead or some BS like that. You make a promise to do something for them in their stead. And in that one, stupid, tiring moment, you decide - like the dumbass you are - to TRUST them with that. You let THEM decide that for you. You have FAITH in them, that they can take responsibility for their own actions. You take that promise more as a “what if” than as a “oh yeah this is legit, this is the last promise they’re ever going to make,” but that possibility is just too painful to even look at so you willfully IGNORE it in the hopes that you’re wrong. You agree to this promise. You don’t even look for another way to get to the other side to offer your damn hand._

_With your trust in them, they died._

_They died. I let him die._

**Akira K.:** And part of me died with him.

By the time Mishima scrolled through the long-winded text, another appeared. Part of him didn’t want to continue. Part of him knew he had to. And part of him wondered why the heck Akira would tell _Mishima_ all this, and not somebody closer, or one of his former teammates. He steeled himself, eyes already blinking rapidly from the raw, vulnerable confession, before resuming:

 **Akira K.:** I didn’t do anything to stop it.

_I knew he’d do something stupid like that, deep deep deep down. The more I think back on it, the more obvious it becomes. Like, he WOULD do something so fucking stupid like that. Yet I still have the gall to ask myself, “Why? Why would you do something that fucking stupid?” Like I don’t want to understand. There was so much more I could have done. And I didn’t. And now no one even talks about it, not really, and I want to scream from the fucking rooftops about it, but not a single person aside from those who were there would understand._

_And even they don’t get it. I was the leader. I made that decision, for all of us. For him. I bear that weight for the rest of my fucking life. Morning and night still comes, the world is saved from some weird mumbo-jumbo crap I can’t even wrap my head around completely but I’m pretty sure it involved a god? I kept my promise to him, and I’m stuck in time without a damn clear direction mourning a person everyone pretends didn’t exist or are happy he’s not here anymore. I don’t even know WHY I’m mourning someone so fucking - so goddamn - I can’t even begin to say, like, no insult can pinpoint just how much bullshit he did. But he just needed someone to love him, in the end. It’s so fucking corny. But it’s true. He needed love._

_I loved him._

Mishima paused and reread the three words until they were imprinted into his retinas. Akira loved someone. He licked his lips and tried to push aside the immediate depression with the realization that Akira loved someone _else._ Not Mishima. But that didn’t matter right now. He needed to grow up. Right now - even if he wasn’t a special someone on Akira’s radar - he needed to be there for his best friend.

 **Akira K.:** Even after everything, I fucking loved him, and I never got to say it before he died.

_Even when he betrayed me and all that, it didn’t matter. I’m so stupid._

_I tried really hard to keep it all together these past few months, buried those feelings with as many layers of dirt as I could. I tried to get some normalcy back into my life, even after disbanding the Phantom Thieves (officially). I said my goodbyes, I went back home, I made-up with my parents, sort of, I chat with my friends back in Shinju, but nothing feels right anymore._

_I feel like a fjucking mss and I dont know what t do._

Akira said Mishima wouldn’t understand. He was right; Mishima didn’t understand completely, but he understood _some._ He knew what it was like to dream about something for months on end, to replay those terrible memories with “should’ves” and “could’ves” until reaching its crescendo with a friend teetering on the edge of the school building’s rooftop like a frail, hobbling kitten trying to cross the freeway without looking for traffic in the hopes it’d get hit by a car to end its misery. When she jumped, Mishima dreamed of sirens, of school crowds, of _Kamoshida,_ of all the words he wanted to say to her, to encourage her, to love her, but none ever came out as he led her like an executioner to the grounds. 

He didn’t understand losing someone he cared about because Suzui survived. But for the longest time, he didn’t know if she would. In those days, he only wanted one thing:

Somebody to just be there.

While no one really quite stepped up for _him_ (he instead found solace in the Phantom Thieves), he surely wasn’t going to allow Akira to wallow in despair alone. He swiped the messages aside and tapped on the phone icon for the first time in a long, long time. 

After two rings, Akira picked up. 

_“Hello?”_

All the bravado and charm Mishima held synonymous with “Akira” crumpled into a badly-hidden, gravelly voice of someone hiding that they were moments before balling their eyes out. Mishima held his breath for a moment and pressed the phone harder against his ear, rummaging through a pile of jumbled words to find _something_ worth saying. Moonlight streamed through his window, revealing only floating dust.

“Your address,” he heard himself say. “What’s your address?”

_“My… address? Physical address?”_

“Right. Where do you live?”

Akira fumbled out the numbers and letters between quiet hitches, and Mishima dutifully wrote it down in the margins of one of his crinkled interviews strewn about around him. 

“Take tomorrow off from school,” he said, eying his closet to determine what he wanted to wear. “Actually, take two days off. I’m coming to visit. Make sure to stock some extra food for me, yeah? Oh, and tell your parents I’m no hassle. I promise to be good and blah blah blah.”

Flabbergasted, Akira replied, _“Wh--but I’m two hours north by car. You can’t just walk here?”_

“I mean, if I were determined enough, I sure could. And you know something, I really could. But don’t worry about that. My Dad owes me one, anyways. He’s between jobs, he’s not doing anything important.” 

A small laugh. Progress. _“That’s not nice.”_ He paused. _“Are you sure you want to come here? I’m not a Phantom Thief anymore.”_

Mishima winced. “Like that matters. I mean, if you were talking to younger me, that’d be _all_ that matters, sure. But I’m not like that anymore. I’m like, only three-tenths jerk levels now.”

_“I’d argue five-tenths.”_

“Hey!” 

Another small laugh, interrupted by a hiccup. Mishima felt himself swell with pride. 

“But seriously,” he continued, “I’m staying at your place tomorrow night, and we’re going to chill together. As your manager, I forbid you to back out. And I promise, no Phan-girls or anything. Just us two. Okay?”

 _“...Okay,”_ Akira answered. He sounded so small in that one utterance. An unsaid _thank you_ lingered between the syllables, so soft and faint that Mishima almost missed it. 

“Good. In the meantime, you should get some sleep.” Crying had to be one of the most tiring exercises in the world. “But make a quick mental note to stock up on chocolate for me, ‘cause Mom’s been cutting me off ever since my last dentist visit.”

 _“No promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Wait. Aren’t_ you _the guest? Shouldn’t you be getting me something instead?”_

“Oops, look at the time! Golly, it’s gotten late, huh? Well, good night! See you tomorrow!”

He heard Akira’s cut-off snickering from the receiver as he ended the call. He glimpsed at the texts one more time. The end of the Phantom Thieves was around Christmas - meaning Akira’s been harboring those feelings since then. The cherry blossoms have since bloomed with the new year. The meager piles of snow melted, and the sun felt warm again. School uniforms would change soon.

He sat up and gathered his materials for his book, setting them next to his sleeping laptop. His own literary struggles could take a backseat for now. 

Tomorrow, he had bigger fish to fry.

***

Akira misjudged the distance by a half hour too little. A traffic jam clogged up the freeway from a rare accident this far from actual civilization. When Akira said he was returning to the country, he really meant the _country_ \- the street he lived on comprised maybe a fourth of the suburbs before entering a tiny stretch of downtown. Mountains and rice paddies extended to the horizon everywhere he turned his head. It was strange, observing the birthplace of the coolest guy Mishima’s ever known. From this information, Akira should have been a country bumpkin. 

“If you need anything, I’m just a phone call away,” Dad said, eying the surprisingly plain house. “I’ll be back to pick you up tomorrow night around six or so.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’m sorry for the short notice, but I have to do something I really can’t ignore here. I hope you understand.”

“Yuki.” A certain gravity in Dad’s voice turned Mishima back around to face him. “I don’t understand, but… You really have grown up. I’m proud to call you my son.”

Mishima gawked as Dad scratched his cheek awkwardly, averting his gaze.

“Tomorrow then,” he ended gruffly, then put the car back in gear. Mishima watched as the small vehicle became a black blip on the road. That was the first time Dad ever said something so… so… He struggled to decide on a word. _Fatherly,_ he settled with. Fatherly. 

Well. He hoisted his bag strap over his shoulder and peered up at the house. Modest and quaint. He wondered what Akira’s parents were like. He squared his shoulders and, robotically, charged at the front door. The _ding-dong-ding_ chimed loudly around him upon his thumb jamming against the doorbell.

A moment passed, and then appeared Akira, peeking from behind the cracked door. His tousled tangles of a mop on his head appeared just a tad longer since last time. _Cute,_ an errant thought cooed, and Mishima’s brain worked quickly to have it bashed into silence.

“Hey.” Mishima gave a quick wave. “It’s been awhile.”

Akira backpedaled to let Mishima inside. The entryway sported immaculately placed high-heels, sneakers, and rainboots along the tiled floor. A coat rack teetered precariously with too many heavy jackets weighing it down, and two spiky houseplants watched its dangerous act from afar in upright attention. _Clean,_ he thought. Almost too clean; even the small hallway’s wooden floorboards glistened with a fresh polish coating. Impersonable.

_Almost as boring as me._

“Hey,” Akira replied at last as Mishima peeled off his shoes. He fiddled with his bangs. “That bag’s a bit large for a sleepover, isn’t it?”

“No kidding.” Mishima set it down and unzipped it, revealing a sloppily-wrapped box sitting atop a change of clothes. “This is for you.”

“I was joking about the gift.” Akira accepted it anyhow, spinning the box on his middle finger like it was his cellphone. “Did you have to Google ‘how to wrap boxes,’ because this is pretty bad.”

“I’m a _writer,_ not an _artist,_ ” Mishima quipped. “And at least pretend to be grateful, yeah? You can open it now or later, it doesn’t really matter which.”

A thoughtful look flashed across Akira’s face before tucking the box under his arm. “Want a quick tour? There’s not much here, but…”

“Lay it on me.”

The Kurusu household possessed a basic set-up for rooms, with simplistic (and minimalistic) decorations sprucing up the otherwise bland white walls. Few family photos sat on dressers. Small plants sprouted along windowsills. A black cat roamed with them for a moment before turning tail to find something more interesting to do. It was like a movie set displaying a standard Japanese home. The only eclectic spot in the house resided in Akira’s room - the Phantom Thieves banner hung on the wall over his futon, and little collectibles donned the shelves. 

“Huh,” Mishima said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “What do your parents even do?”

“Business stuff,” he answered, noncommittal. “They’re at work right now. They weren’t too thrilled with me asking for today or tomorrow off, but they figured maybe I should do something to celebrate me getting off probation. It’s not like I ask for much in the first place.”

“Huh,” he said again. 

An awkward silence followed. Mishima took the opportunity to set his bag down on the floor next to the desk, ruminating about what to do next. The weight of Akira’s texts burned in Mishima’s pocket. How would he bring that up? 

_“I loved him.”_

He swallowed hard.

“So,” he tried feebly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“You hungry?” Akira brushed by him out of the bedroom. “I’ve been trying to nail Cafe LeBlanc’s curry recipe, and I think I’ve almost got it down-pat. But,” he gave a sheepish smile, “my mother and father aren’t curry fans, so I have no taste-testers. Want to give it a try?”

“So long as you don’t burn my mouth off.”

To that, Akira laughed. It still didn’t quite reach his eyes.

*

The kitchen stewed in the scent of onion and garlic. Akira stirred the ingredients together while Mishima watched those dexterous hands toy with the ladle. To their left, a coffee maker dribbled the putrid, bitter liquid steaming within its glass entrapment. 

“How can you stand it?”

“What, coffee?” Akira shrugged. “You get used to it. Want sugar in yours?”

“You expect me to _drink_ it?”

He grinned. _Still not right._ “Every last drop, or else you have to sleep outside.”

Even with heaps of sugar, it tasted wretched. Mishima wrinkled his nose and forced down another gulp, eyes squeezing shut. His only salvation now between his taste buds and the coffee-onslaught was the still-cooking curry. He gripped the mug and scowled.

“How much longer?”

“Two thousand years,” Akira deadpanned. “And twenty-ish minutes.”

A lull followed. Mishima’s fingers rapped along the mug, eying Akira’s fixated stare on the curry. The ladle moved rhythmically ad nauseam. Despite better judgment, Mishima took another sip of Hell’s nectar to buy time, but not even little devils had advice about how to navigate the murky waters of forced smalltalk.

 _Screw it._ He set the mug down with a hard “thump.” _I’ve spent so much time wishing I could have said something to Suzui instead of being a coward. Remember why you came here in the first place._

With a shaky breath that lacked all visages of bravery, he managed a, “You’ve been through a lot, huh.”

The ladle stilled. Akira’s lips downturned, and his stare refused to budge from the curry. They had to have this conversation eventually. Mishima practically forced it to, what with demanding to come visit. Maybe he overstepped. But Akira would have told him if he did right? He had to have faith in that.

“I’m, uh, here.” His thumb stroked the mug’s handle. “For you, I mean. If you want to… talk.”

“I already said everything I,” Akira stopped, then shook his head. He turned down the heat before facing Mishima. His placid, calm expression felt anything but; turbulence roared behind the murky brown eyes boring into Mishima. “I,” he breathed, and he gritted his teeth, hands balling up by his sides. 

Strong and kind people often get overlooked in their darkest hour. Suzui came to mind, and now Akira. Akira helped so many people it was difficult to wrap Mishima’s mind around it. Scores upon scores of people, all chanting their support for the Phantom Thieves. He remembered that day clearly, when the world warped and the skies rained red, how he stood his ground against defeat with one fist thrust into the air. He determined then to always support them - wasn’t that what they needed in the first place? A supporter? That was more important than the condescending title of _manager._

Mishima used those same hands he threw at an uncaring god to pull Akira closer, to guide him into a hesitant embrace.

Time slowed to a crawl. The curry bubbled. Steam wafted from a half-finished mug of coffee. Outside, meandering footsteps of housewives shuffled by, their chatter muffled by the house’s walls. Akira didn’t move. His forehead sat upon Mishima’s shoulder. For a moment, Mishima wondered if Akira was even _breathing_ anymore, only to have those thoughts dismissed with a sharp suck of air between teeth. Mishima’s hug tightened.

“Tell me about him.”

A beat, then a shuddering sigh.

“He was a two-faced traitor, on the surface.”

“Was he one of the PT?”

“Yes,” Akira replied, quietly, “but only for a little while. And we all knew for the wrong reasons. But I knew him before that - long before that. He used to come by the cafe in the evening, just to read. Just to… talk.” 

The plastic frame of his glasses dug into Mishima’s collarbone. He took a moment to pluck them off and set them next to his mug. The timer on the stovetop read ten more minutes before lunch was ready - Mishima made a note to keep an eye on it.

“He and I were… similar, in a weird can’t-really-explain way. We got along, too. He was handsome, popular, smart. Dorky. Our ideals clashed, and he opposed us for so long, but I couldn’t help it. I really…” He trailed off, but Mishima connected the dots. “Not that it matters now,” he muttered. “None of that matters.”

“It does, though. Right?”

Akira lifted his head. Mishima gave a sheepish laugh and averted his stare.

“Like, how you felt - er, feel - about him is still,” Mishima grasped at straws for reassuring words, much like how Akira gave to him that day out on the hill, “incredibly important. You carry them by yourself now, but just because you carry them alone doesn’t mean they’ve lost their impact. Those memories and stuff do matter. It’s just different now - how you view them. Right now, they hurt - I bet they hurt a lot, thinking about it all the time, like how I thought about volleyball and our coach and… that cloudy day. But…”

His mind wandered to Takamaki. Ann Takamaki, hand-in-hand with her best friend during a physical therapy appointment. Mishima had stopped by to visit Suzui, only to turn around to give them space. Still, Suzui called out to him, and, with her smile, helped ease the pain digging at his heart for months. 

“But, maybe… Maybe you can look back at them one day with fondness. The days you did have with him. Maybe you didn’t get to _say_ it, but,” Mishima gave a small smile, “if he knew you as well as _I_ do - or like I like to think I do - then he knew. I guarantee it. He had to have known, because you’re just that kind of guy, you know?”

Akira sniffed. “What kind of guy?”

“The ‘deeds before words’ type. Other than those calling cards. I mean, you said he asked you to carry out one last promise for him, right?”

Akira nodded once, lips drawn into a thin line at the memory.

“If I were about to, uh. You know. I would only want to give my last request to the person I trusted most. I think most people are like that.” Mishima’s hand slipped to Akira’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. “He knew. I have complete faith that he did. Otherwise, he would’ve never done that. I think.”

“If he knew, he probably hated me all the more for it.” Akira snorted, then placed his head on Mishima’s shoulder again. Alarm bells fired in Mishima’s head to _calm down, calm down!_ They were talking about Akira’s dead _crush,_ for heaven’s sake! He couldn’t get worked up about this sought after personal space invasion. “I’m sorry. This really has nothing to do with you, but I just… To be honest, out of everyone, you being out of the loop actually makes it easier to talk to. About this.”

“Well, I’m not _completely_ out of the loop. If I were, I wouldn’t be writing a book about your little adventures, now would I?” His smile drooped. “That is, if I could stay motivated to actually…”

And like a beacon from a lighthouse flashing in the foggy seas where Mishima’s inspirations bobbed aimlessly, an idea struck him with such ferocity he almost hugged Akira _too_ tightly. The gears whirred, his fingers twitched, and an audible gasp escaped him before he could stop himself. That was it. An answer to his round-about prose, a direction to get _somewhere._

“Is it okay if I write about him?”

The timer went off. Akira remained frozen, so Mishima stretched to turn off the burner and clumsily slide the pot to a cooler coil. They would have to let it set before eating, and it wasn’t like Akira seemed to be in the mood to do that anyways.

“I mean, in the book about the PT I’m working on. Since he’s important to you, I feel like it wouldn’t be right to exclude him,” he continued, suddenly feeling like he breached a topic he ventured too soon. “But I want to make sure I pen him down right. I want to do him justice, if… that makes sense. I’m sorry, was that - that was kind of rude of me, huh. I…”

“No, that’s.” Akira gave a quick shake of his head. “I think… yes. That would be… okay. It’d be nice to have some memories written down _somewhere._ ”

“Yeah?”

Another nod.

“If you’re sure, then I’ll have to interview you again sometime. Or you can just send me everything you remember you think is relevant.” Mishima paused. “I promise,” he said, “I’ll do the best I can as your manager to write about him well.”

“You know something?” Akira withdrew and smiled - a faint shimmer of the familiar _warmth_ flickered in his eyes, at _last._ “I was wrong. You’re more like… two-tenths of the jerk you used to be.”

Mishima scoffed and rolled his eyes in playful offense. “Gee, thanks. Glad to know I retain at least one-fifth of my jerkitude, otherwise I wouldn’t know who I am anymore.”

Akira nudged his shoulder before slipping away from his grasp. He stood up straighter; less slouched, less defeated. Maybe Mishima helped, after all. Akira pulled down two bowls from the cupboard and gestured towards the drawer. “Talking’s made me hungry. Chopsticks are in there. Want anything to drink with your curry?”

“You mean other than your, uh, _lovely_ coffee? Water’s just fine, thanks.”

One-fifth. Sure, he used to be full of himself and completely selfish, and yes, he tried to use his heroes as a means to propel himself into the spotlight. But, with the four-fifths of kindness they bestowed him, he could repay the favor somewhat. One word at a time.

A bowl materialized in front of Mishima’s vision. The curry was piping hot yet smelled fantastic. 

“Did he try this, too?” Mishima inquired, poising his chopsticks.

Akira’s smile softened. “Yeah,” he said, then laughed a little. “But back then, he said it tasted awful. And it did. I think I’ve a lot learned since then.”

That made two of them. Mishima dared to take a bite. He chewed slowly. Thoughtfully. He pursed his lips, then nodded.

“I’d say you’ve almost got it.”

“Almost?”

“Probably lacking, oh, twenty percent of LeBlanc’s kick.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to come over again during summer break for my comeback. My curry will knock your socks off by then.”

“Who’d want to eat _spicy_ curry in the summer, you weirdo? At least make me some smoothies or popsicles or _cold_ foods.”

A pause. Akira pushed up his glasses, smirking. “So… _leftover_ curry?”

“Oh my god. I’m calling Dad to take me home. Your food suggestions are incorrigible.”

“Before I can even offer the crepes I bought for you?” His eyebrows raised in feigned surprise. “That’s a shame. Guess I’ll have to eat them all by myself.”

“Wh - hey! Never mind, you’re stuck with me ‘til tomorrow after all.”

“Mishima?”

“Bwuh?”

Akira set his chopsticks down for a moment. His gaze shifted to an untraceable location. “Thanks. I mean it.”

Mishima hurried to swallow (and almost choked in the process). He ungraciously wiped the sauce on his arm and coughed a few times to rid the spice burning on his tongue. Right now, he probably looked like a total idiot, but that was fine. 

He looked like an idiot in front of his best friend - of whom he’d do anything for, come hell or twisted god-thing.

“No problem, Akira.”


End file.
